


More

by ellagenetics



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Darcy Lewis, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Darcy Lewis is a God, Darcy Lewis-centric, F/M, I gave Shay's aunt a name!, M/M, Mentions of Sarah Rogers, Multi, Not Beta Read, Pagan Gods, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Shay Cormac is surprisingly not Irish Catholic, Soulmates, Steve Rogers is not Irish Catholic, Tuatha Dé Danann, i promise i'm not crazy, most of the marvel characters appear like once and won't be super prominent for awhile, my way of making irish mythology assassin's creed lore and marvel lore work, sorry I didn't feel like killing him, the worldbuilding will be extensive and i am sorry if i assume you know what i'm talking about, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellagenetics/pseuds/ellagenetics
Summary: Sometimes life has a way of fucking us all over, but it works out in the end. Darcy Lewis (or, Dorcha, as she was named by her mother) is not exactly who she has been appearing to be since, oh, 2007. And she is not surprised by her mother's perpetual meddling resulting in a grand scheme that ends in, well, this.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis & Shay Cormac & Haytham Kenway, Jane Foster & Darcy Lewis
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. You Give Me A Headache

Darcy sighs as she looks up at Jane, tapping her marker against the whiteboard as she thinks about a particular line of thought she was following in her dissertation. She scribbles it down and takes a picture of it before turning back to organizing Jane’s data. Haytham and Shay are unusually silent in her head, but Shay is the type of silent that means he’s sailing. Haytham may be asleep. She’s not sure. 

Darcy rubs at the headache forming between her brows, shaking her head as she turns back to the screen. 

Her headache steadily increases as the hour continues, and she drops her pen. It’s not enough for Jane to notice, but Darcy gets up. 

“Jane, I’ve got a migraine,” she calls, refilling the scientist’s coffee mug on the way past. “I’m going to lie down.”

Jane hums in response, sipping gratefully at the cup of coffee. Darcy doesn’t make it to the elevator before the pain becomes blinding, and distantly she knows the thud of her significantly heavier than human body falling is loud enough to stir Bruce from his experiments. Her head hurts so bad she can’t see, and she can hear him shouting for FRIDAY to send the paramedic team. 

That’s the last time she has a coherent thought for a long time. 

* * *

“Wait, what do you mean, Lewis is comatose?” Clint asks, eyebrows furrowing together. He saw Darcy before they left for the mission and she was fine. A bit tired, seeing as she was at the end of her last set of finals and final exams for her MPhil, but physically fine. She was optimistic about the outcome of them, and her dissertation proposal had gotten accepted. She’d also been preparing for the conferring of her law degree and MPhil and excited about starting her PhD coursework. 

Jane sighs. “She collapsed in front of the elevator two days ago and hasn’t woken up yet. Cho and Bruce have found some weird fluctuations in her brain patterns, and to make it even weirder, the medic team had trouble lifting her onto the stretcher because apparently she weighs three hundred and two pounds, even if she doesn’t display any signs of that outwardly.” Jane looks actually concerned for her friend’s health, which is a new thing. Jane hadn’t displayed much concern for Darcy in awhile, simply annoyance when she didn't get something done. She was close to a breakthrough and her drive to get her bridge finished had made her very snappy. 

Scientists ran on a perpetual schedule, and Darcy had cut back her hours and forced Jane to get another assistant with her entry into graduate school. The rest of the Avengers did not run on such a constant schedule, they frequently had a great deal of downtime between missions either for SHIELD or saving the world. Natasha was busy teaching Wanda self-defense, and Clint was doing the same for Pietro most days. Darcy Lewis had been there since the Battle of Manhattan, but she mostly slid by unnoticed. She was a near-constant presence in Jane’s lab, words as quick to cut as they were to make a joke. She was interesting, at the very least. But she blended in. And ultimately, in the face of people like Jane Foster and Helen Cho and Pepper Potts, inconsequential. Not anymore, it appeared. 

Clint sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “Great. Does Bruce have any idea what exactly she is?”

Jane shakes her head. “Not really. She’s like Thor with the muscle and bone density, and her skin seems to be a lot thicker than someone who is a baseline human. I know they had trouble getting an IV in. Any attempts to analyze her genetic material have failed spectacularly, even with the help of FRIDAY. The point is, we don't know, we can’t figure it out. And I really doubt she’ll be open to questions if she wakes up. There’s just a lot we realized we aren’t sure of, and FRIDAY’s check into her background has turned up a few holes. We’ll deal with it when we deal with it, I guess.” 

Jane looks troubled, and sad, and Clint chooses to ask her a question. “Are you okay?”

Jane shakes her head, biting her lip. “I’m just angry at myself for not being a better friend, that’s all.”

“She’ll wake up, Jane.”

“I know. That doesn’t make it any better.”

* * *

She wakes up. 

Unexpected, but she wakes up, and she is in a human clinic, in a hospital bed, and not choking on silt and seawater. This is significant for the two Dorchas, they are now one Dorcha, and that Dorcha remembers both the Greater Dryas period and the Citizens United decision with the same precise clarity. Things have changed in the human world since she was chained beneath the sea, to a point where she doesn’t recognize the sleek metal and foul plastic of their dwellings, but the memories from the later Dorcha are consistent with this place. They have missed three and a half thousand years of history, but there is no adjusting to be done. None at all. The only adjusting is the reconciling of the two selves, and that is going to be completed quickly with the mind magic that they are accustomed to. 

They don't know what woke them up, or what merged them together into one self, but they know it was for a reason. Nothing is without a reason. There is a reason for the chains on her hands and body fading into the pale silver of old scar tissue, of stretch marks, of the moon on a clear night. She stretches her awareness and can touch the barrier that holds her people in the Otherworld, that many-named place that she created as a sanctuary for her people. Not a prison. 

If that is why she is here, it is what she shall do. She shall have to visit all of the passage tombs and break the warding, make the doors traversable again. It may take time, but she is awake now. It may be too late for the Tuatha De Danann to have their revenge against the Milesians, but there are people today whose blood she can spill to appease her people. 

She felt the opening of a portal and her partner-souls dealing with the same headache that comes with merging later parts of themselves with the present parts, and she bats one of the doctors out of the way with the same ease she swats flies with, and bolts for the emergency stairs. She does not care about the alarms she sets off on her sprint up. She cares for reaching her partner-souls. 

Those she passes on the stairs on the way up gasp and shout at her appearance, at the wildness of her curls and the blue markings of her species and at her hospital gown. She does not care. They are humans, and humans, for all of their intelligence and resilience, have long been a race that does not understand things that are different from them. The Tuatha de Danann only hated the Formorians and the Partholonians and the Milesians because they attempted to kill them and force them from their home, but it was the Celts, those first Irish humans, that they found friends in. On her dash up the stairs she remembers Ardghal, her human lover. The first and only man to this date she has ever borne a child for and one of the only humans she respects. She compares him to her partner-souls and does not find him lacking, she just finds him very different from them. In the way that the early Celts, the ones that came from England during the Younger Dryas, would be different to any modern human. 

It does not take her long to reach the floor she is looking for. The lab floor, where she had previously collapsed. She stops in the entrance of Jane’s lab, drinking in the sight of her partner-souls. Both of them dressed in ways suited to their duplicitous roles, Master and Grandmaster meeting Captain and merchant. She sees them as they see each other. They look well even if they are tired and disheveled. They are here. They are alive. And they are with her as they were always meant to be. 

She darts past the flabbergasted pair of scientists to skid to a stop in front of her partner-souls. She beams at them, breathless with excitement. “You’re here,” she manages to say in English. “ _ You’re here _ .”

“I-Dorcha?” Haytham says in astonishment, Shay’s hand still on his arm to steady him in this new environment. His other hand reaches out towards her, palm up. Shay’s hands are gloved because he can’t produce a glamour anymore, and the humans still get weird about the look of their chains. Neither of those things will be a problem within the next three hours, no matter how angry these annoying humans will get about her stealing her partner-souls. Well. That isn't really her problem, is it?

Dorcha grabs their hands with both of hers, her fingers wrapping around Shay’s wrist rather than his hand. Oh, that is a very nice feeling. Like standing in a thunderstorm and catching lightning in a jar for her mother. Shay makes a noise muffled by his other hand as he lets go of Haytham’s arm. She grins at them. “I told you we’d meet one day, didn’t I?”

“Darcy, you shouldn’t be standing so soon!” Jane tells her, hands on her hips. Bruce looks like he wants to say something about her and how she is very much supposed to be convalescing or something like that. He doesn’t. Good for him. They don't know how to react to Jane’s successful experiment, that is clear. Or the presence of two 18th century murderers, not that they really need to know that. 

“I am fine. I will be taking my leave, now,” she says to the pair of scientists, before blinking out of existence and back in again. She appears behind seven layers of wards, in a little cottage surrounded by a violent blizzard, the lake appearing out the back windows completely frozen over. This little house on Washington Island, surrounded by woods, was her favorite place to retreat when New York City became too noisy. It was also the safest property she owned, because of the numerous wards, and the cold. Now she knew why she liked the cold so much. The howl of wind and snow and ice was comforting. 

She claps her hands and faces her soul-partners, grinning. “So. Who wants tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Younger Dryas- referring to a cold period occurring around 12000 years ago, let this give you a hint as to her age.  
> This spans a week of time, from about December 28th, 2015, to January 3rd, 2016. (this is as much for my reference as yours, guys)


	2. Steve Rogers is not an Irish Catholic

FRIDAY had recorded Darcy’s eyes opening at the exact same moment that Jane’s new portal had flashed white and the two men had fallen through. What happened next was confusing and required playback from several cameras, slowed down to an extreme degree. There were so many weird things going on after she woke up that they were hard to understand. 

First, she ripped out her IV and batted aside a doctor like it was nothing to swat someone into a wall. The doctor was fine, but still the fact that she could do so was impressive. 

Second, she ran up eighteen flights of stairs, to the labs. In the span of about two minutes. Still in a hospital gown. Right after waking up from a seven-day coma. Right. People aren’t able to wake up from a fucking coma and immediately sprint up eighteen flights of stairs, okay? At most they’re able to sit up, but their muscles haven't been used in seven days, and that affects people. At this point it becomes more obvious that Dorcha isn't conventionally human, or human in the manner that the people in Avengers Tower understand. The most capable humans on their team in physicality are Natasha and Steve, and they represent peak human capability with their enhanced bodies (and minds). Even they couldn’t manage something like that. 

The third thing that is obvious in the footage is that she knows the two men who fell out of the portal. They both look like they came straight out of a Revolutionary War textbook, so the question of how she knows them becomes another question that they need to be asking. Knowing them might be a...simplistic term for what these two men mean to her, with the emotion and excitement visible in her voice, and their shock at seeing her apparent in their expressions. 

Tony, like the absolute fucking drama queen he is, has already concocted a murder board in the style of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. A murder board. As if the strange occurrences surrounding Darcy deserve a murder board. Steve stares at the footage with his arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, watching her move and then zooming in on her arm. He stares at it for awhile longer, before turning to the rest of the room. Jane and Tony are arguing, Bruce is examining the tests he ran, Natasha is hacking with Clint perched over her shoulder, and the twins are spiritedly arguing about a book in their native Romanian. 

“Guys,” Steve says, making sure to pitch his voice above the chaos. “I think I’ve figured something out.”

Natasha’s attention fixates on him immediately, the way it does when she’s on a target. The rest of them, excepting the still-arguing Jane and Tony, turn their attention to him “Have you?” Natasha asks, looking interested. “You’ve been staring at those markings for awhile.”

Steve nods, resolute, remembering all of the stories that his mother had told him when he was a little boy. From the Cattle Raid of Cooley to the vaunted skills of their patron, Brigid, the mythologies and stories of Ireland had always had a special place in his heart. But the story of Dorcha the Traveller was one his mother related to him more than most of the others, for Sarah Rogers strongly believed in the old gods, and credited her with her safe passage to America. “Dorcha is the name of one of the gods of the Irish pantheon. Told to be the daughter of the Morrigan and a human father, she was the patron of travel and change. She protects travelers, even if she was said to have been used to seal the Tuatha De Danann in the barrows thousands of years ago. The stories say that the Milesians buried her beneath the sea,” he explains, watching the microexpressions cross Natasha’s impassable face. She does look troubled, or at least troubled for her. 

“Hmm,” she remarks, tapping her chin with her finger. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

“It was the woad. The tales say that the Tuatha De Danann were born with natural woad lines, and Celtic woad was an attempt to mimic what they saw on the skins of their gods. I know all of the old tales,” he says, not exactly liking the look in Natasha’s eyes, and he stops. 

“So, you're saying that Darcy’s what, some kind of god?” Bruce pulls off his glasses and pinches his nose. “That’s out there, Steve.”

“It’s a hypothesis.”

“Boss, I’ve finished trying to identify the men from the portal,” FRIDAY’s voice chimes. “They match two old paintings. Haytham Kenway and Shay Cormac. I’ve found information on both of them.”

“Wonderful!” Tony exclaims, clapping his hands together. “What have you got, FRIDAY, you brilliant AI?”

“Well, first, Kenway was Edward Kenway’s son. The pirate. Kenway seems to have taken on his father’s shipping business after his death and gone to America in 1754. There are records of him on a passenger manifest from Boston. From there it appears he led a fairly normal life, taking a trip to Europe in 1756 and returning to London with his half-sister, Jennifer Scott. He goes back to the States from there and ends up dying mysteriously in 1781. He had a son at some point, Connor. Kenway left everything to his sister, and his sister left that to the son. Cormac, on the other hand, was New York born to Irish parents. He was wanted for piracy but rewarded by the King of England during the French and Indian War. He and Kenway might have been colleagues, there’s passenger manifests listing both of them whenever a ship called Morrigan docked with both of them onboard in ports that required that. He and Kenway parted ways in 1763, and there are records of him all over Europe from then until the late 1770s. He too ended up living a fairly average life, but he died in 1828. He had a son and a daughter, whose descendants live on today.”

FRIDAY’s information is not exactly surprising, but Steve narrows his eyes at the surname Cormac. He knows the stories, the Kings of Munster were Cormacs. They were also apparently druids, or at the very least, they had druids in their line, which is pretty interesting. Druids were demonized and weakened by the later Catholic teachings, and even though the worshippers of the old gods had passed down the true stories of Irish legend, there were still things that got lost from one generation to another. Sarah Rogers was an O’Connor before she was a Rogers, and the O’Connors kept up the pretense of Irish Catholicism like all of the old families did. The Cormacs were another entirely separate dimension to the old families, spoken of in awed and legendary terms like Cu Chulainn or Lir. Nobody was really sure if the Cormacs were still druids, but every now and then, one of them married into one of the old families. They believed in the old gods, that was for sure. 

Shay was usually Anglicized for either Seaghdha, meaning something along the lines of hawk, or it was short for Setanta, which was the given name of Cu Chulainn, and a name that carried heavy connotations. Those who were named Setanta were fate-touched, bound to a certain death or an unhappy fate, and just generally fucked over by life. Either way. Shay was probably a proper Cormac, or a son of a branch that came over to the States in the 1700s. Either way, Steve wasn’t as well versed in Irish old families as his mother was, and the 1750s old families were probably totally different in culture and makeup from the ones in the 1930s. It was a lot safer to be someone who adhered to the old Irish religion in the 30s than it was in the 1700s, but secrecy was a part of their culture. If they could find more on Shay Cormac, they wouldn’t find that. 

Steve looked around the room. Tony was focused on the documents that FRIDAY had brought up, but he’d lose interest in this within a day or two unless Darcy turned back up. He didn't think they’d hear a word of her until the new semester started on January 19th and she started her doctoral studies officially. 

Natasha, however, had a tendency to pull at threads until she caught something nasty on the end, and then she took a delight in tearing whatever that was to shreds. There was something more to the two men, and whatever Darcy was hiding. Whenever that came to light, it would be nasty. 

Clint looked kind of bored, but he would help Natasha do whatever she needed to do when it came to spying. 

The twins would probably help them out, seeing as they idolized the pair of spies and found mentors and friends in them.

Jane would be worried about Darcy, and Bruce would keep the records and the investigation on a back burner until Natasha found something. Either way, this was going to end up inconsequential, or it was going to end up bloody. Only time would tell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there should be accents on some of the names, but putting in accents is...difficult. Anyway. If you are well-versed in Assassin's Creed, you'll notice that there is something very large missing from the identities of our two favorite Templars. Specifically, the fact that they are Templars. The information FRIDAY got has no allusions to that at all, and it would take all of them significant research to even get a hint of because Abstergo...doesn't exactly want that information out there. Neither do the Assassins. As usual, comments are welcome, especially if you need clarification. I forget that not everyone knows what's going on in my head all the time and I might leave things out that are obvious to me but unknown to you guys.


	3. Tea and Templars

The wind howls outside of the massive picture window, snow whipping across a frozen landscape. It’s harder for the wind to blow between the cedar trees, but it manages nonetheless, and the drifts of snow are quite impressive this year. The house is small, but the fire crackling in the fireplace keeps it much warmer against the cold outside. She gazes out the window by the kitchen as she waits for the water in the kettle to boil, watching the snowflakes drift past her. 

“Dorcha, darlin’, why did they say you weren’t supposed to be standin’ so soon?” Shay asks her, soft Irish accent making his concern all the more apparent. She can feel his concern, literally, through that nebulous bond that makes all three of them partner-souls. 

She looks down at her hospital gown, a Stark-patented one that seals down the sides instead of the back and has a loose collar for the doctors to stick ECG monitors on a patient. It is much more stylish than a traditional hospital gown, indeed, but it is what it is. “Ah, right,” she remarks, turning around to face her concerned partner-souls. “The memory reintegration, from the older Dorcha-self, knocked me out. I’ve been asleep for a week, but I’m fine now.”

“No, you’re sitting down and not moving. Where is your tea?” Haytham asks, stepping into her kitchen with a faint look of confusion. To the 18th century gentleman, the modern kitchen is definitely a bit confusing. There’s a fridge, a microwave, a stove, and the counter is poured concrete. In reality, all modern technology is just more refined versions of technology used centuries ago but with electricity. It is...pretty different from an 18th century kitchen, to be honest.

She smiles at him, pointing towards the furthest cabinet, right above the coffeemaker. “Cups are there too, and strainers for the leaves.”

He stares at the tins of tea for a moment, before pulling out her tin of Assam and placing it on the counter. The tea kettle starts shrieking a moment later, and Haytham is practiced enough in the actions of making tea to set three cups of tea on the counter with little strainers full of leaves in the cups. She takes the cup simply to feel the heat of it in her hands, but since she generates more heat than a human and her circulation is better, it isn't as much of a comfort as it would be to Shay or Haytham. It is still nice, though. She’s warm-blooded but she still seeks heat sources. It’s a comfort, even to someone with the mind and psychological makeup of a Tuatha De Danann. 

“Do you know why we’re here, Dorcha?” Shay asks softly, dark eyes catching hers as she looks up. His eyes are intense, even without the flare of gold behind his irises that marks the use of the Eagle Vision. That intensity always has interesting effects on Haytham’s emotions, but she can see why people are so terrified of the notorious Assassin Hunter. Sure, the combat skills are fearsome to a mere human, but seeing those eyes before you die would not be a good way to die. Especially with the sheer black depth his eyes have, holding any number of emotions with an intensity that most other people lack. 

She shrugs, thinking back over the events of the last week and trying to piece everything together. Yes, she had been unconscious for a week straight, but the integration of the old memories combined with the new ones had revealed some interesting connections to her. Firstly, some of the passage tombs that the humans had built, and that she had used as doors to Tir na Nog, were laid over Isu sites. The Isu were scientific and rational, but the gods that had filled the gap after the Isu died were, for lack of any better word, magic. They were attuned to the natural world in a way the Isu never had been, and instead of masters to the humans, they functioned as guides to the humans. A way for them to explain things. The domains they claimed were what they drew their power from, not necessarily human worship, so they were truly immortal as long as that thing existed. Multiple domains were even more useful. Gods weren’t as prevalent these days, but any pagan god had some connection to the Isu. She knew that the Templars and Assassins were trying to track down as many Isu sites and artifacts as they could. She’d heard whispers of Juno and her Instruments of the First Will in the last few years, and the Templars in these days were nothing like Haytham and Shay’s brand of Templars. 

“I think,” she says slowly, “I think you’re here because one of the Isu is trying to come back. I also think you’re here to prevent the Templars and Assassins of the present day from wreaking havoc with mankind. I’ve been freed to free my people, and I don’t quite know how these two things relate to each other, but I will figure it out.”

“One of the Precursors is trying to...manifest themselves? Or something like that? I don’t like the sound of that,” Haytham comments, running his hand over his hair. 

“From what I understand, Juno is in the Internet. She’s pure data right now, and therefore has access to a lot of things that she probably shouldn’t have access to. The logical conclusion of her goal is to get herself a corporeal body. I don't exactly know how she’s going to do it, but she will, and she has a way to exercise her will through the humans surrounding her,” at the slightly horrified and blank looks she’s getting, she explains the Internet quickly. “The internet is like the biggest library on Earth, and you can find specific phrases or subjects by a simple search. You can buy things on it, watch plays, and listen to music. It’s pretty great.”

Shay shakes his head, strands of black hair falling around his face. “You can explain this…Internet… to us later. I think I’m a little more concerned with one of the people who built the Precursor temple runnin’ around wreaking havoc.”

“I haven't really been in touch with the Assassins of present day. I know the Templars are the ones trying to resurrect her, however.”

Haytham sighs in despair, pinching his nose. “Have they learned nothing,” he says, bemoaning the (apparent to him) present state of his Order. It is pretty bad, to be honest. Abstergo has fingers in a lot of pies and they aren’t above kidnapping children and driving them mad in order to get what they want, and what they want is more Pieces of Eden. Haytham lacked morality to a degree, but he didn't torture or kill innocents. Dorcha watches the Grandmaster Templar pace around her living room, his hands behind his back and clearly infuriated. Shay watches from his seat on the couch, peering over the back of it to watch Haytham pace. “We explicitly worked to keep the artifacts out of the hands of the Assassins! To keep them safe! So that they didn't fall into the wrong hands! We did not try and meddle with things that were not ours to meddle with!”

Shay makes a noise of agreement from his spot. “Especially not the Yggdrasil artifacts.”

Haytham sighs, and grabs his cup of tea and aggressively sips from it in an apparent attempt to calm himself down. “Well. Dorcha, perhaps now is not the best time to update us on our Order’s current activities. I could use some sleep.”

She shrugs. “I have a very large bed and if you want a bath, the water is always hot here. I could definitely use a shower and my favorite pair of sleep pants.”

“I’m not wearing these to sleep, they’ve got blood on them,” Shay complains, looking down at his coat. She had vaguely smelled blood, but she thought that was from other things, like being inside a hospital and then around two men who were prolific murderers, whose blades if polished would positively bleed. Well. Those things do happen, in their trade. 

Dorcha sighs. “I’ll show you how to turn on the bath and where I keep my soap.”

* * *

Haytham tugs at his shirt, flipping up the hem to look at the seam. “Is this machine woven?”

Dorcha shrugs, smiling, arms full of the blankets she’s pulled out of the linen closet. She feels better, clean, wearing something that isn't a slightly itchy hospital gown. Instead, she has on a loose shirt and soft linen pajama pants. Also machine woven, but in the modern day, everything really is. “It is. You can’t get much that isn't exorbitantly expensive that’s made by hand. A lot of things are sized and don’t fit right because tailoring is also very expensive. People have more clothes, but they’re not better quality than the kind you're accustomed to.”

Shay flops face first onto her bed, disturbing the neatness of her duvet and pillows. He makes a happy noise, muffled by the blanket, and rolls over. “Your bed is so soft.”

“Cotton?” Haytham asks, fingers running over the pillowcases and face contemplative. 

Dorcha shoves Shay over childishly, causing him to laugh, and wiggles under the layers of sheets and blankets. “It’s cheap. Hemp linen is better for the environment, but cotton is common and cheap.”

It takes a bit of wiggling and logistics to get them all wrapped in the blankets and curled up, and Dorcha remembers the feeling of being piled in a bed with others. When she was small, back in Ireland, she did this with her human cousins. That was different, but the same feeling of comfort and safety wraps her in its arms. She can feel the same from them, through that nebulous thing that pulled them here and tied them together at birth. Her soul-partners are here. With her. Like they were meant to be. She can keep them safe. 

She stares up at the night sky, so much brighter here than it was in New York, and different from the Irish sky of her distant past. 

This is the first night in millennia where she can see the stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will bring more exposition about the Tuatha De Danann, as well as the whole "silt and seawater" thing. As usual, lmk if you have questions.


	4. Silt and Seawater

Dorcha taps her fingers on the countertop as she reads through another source, before discarding it and continuing to the next one. She hasn’t exactly found many papers that are going to be useful for her dissertation, but to be fair, she’s explicitly studying political circumstances throughout the late 18th century and figuring out what circumstances then could be applied to now in regards to the results of revolutionary action. It isn't remotely contemporary. That’s the point, however, and she will make it contemporary. Even if her fellow doctoral students think she’s on crack, she’ll make it work. 

The normalcy of her pursuit of an education and renown in the field of political science is a familiar one. Even as a witch, she had a Mastery in Magical Law and had authored several very well-received papers before her exile. This was a continuation of that, and the highest degree that a person could attain was a good goal to strive for. Two doctorates, the juris doctorate already completed? That was impressive to anyone. She was an academic and damn well prided herself on her pursuit of knowledge. The focus and regularity of searching Google Scholar for academic papers and entering it into a massive document was nice. She had admittedly been doing this since about seven, after coming back from getting food so that she could eat a nice breakfast, and it was nine. Good progress was made. 

Dorcha was pretty surprised, as she didn’t usually sleep longer than six hours. She’d slept an impressive twelve. Her soul-partners were still asleep, but they needed that sleep. Dimensional travel was draining, and so was getting all of your memories from the next thirty to sixty years at once. And they were human, mostly. Human enough for it to mean that they couldn’t process things like her, even with the Isu genes and Shay’s small amounts of divine blood. Well. Small being a relative word. Her people were 

She taps her fingers on the counter, considering her next moves. She kept herself up to date on Assassin and Templar movements, and had done so for years, ever since she figured out her soul-partners were Templars. She had had all of the dirt on Abstergo for years, had kept an eye on them, because Abstergo was The Order and the Order was Abstergo. The Assassins were the countermovement, a group of people hell-bent on stopping Abstergo and the Templar Order, and now hell-bent on stopping Juno. The Juno problem was likely one of the most pressing issues that she had to deal with at this point in time. 

The next issue was the passage tombs. If she was right, none of those had been touched in years. The Door Guardians had been long gone for centuries now, and it would be difficult to say if all of the Doors were in a decent enough state to reopen. Or, to make function properly again. The Doors were always intended to be two-way. She had designed them that way. The purpose of them was to allow free movement of the Tuatha De Danann back and forth between Tir Na Nog and the human world. However, the stories and folktales spoke of a different story. Some of her people may have the ability to pass through the doors because of their powers and purpose in the human world, such as her mother. However, the stories she had heard told as a child about the fae, who were clearly her people, told her that humans could pass through the doors freely, but her people generally could not. Her people were not kind when they did stumble into the places under the hills, and she had also heard instances of half-blooded children among the magical folk. The doors would take work to get back to their original functioning. She had formed them door by door, across Ireland and Britain and most of Europe. There were a few doors in places that weren’t traditionally under her domain, but the point was that she would need to fix them, door by door. And that would take awhile to do, to rework the magic. 

Dorcha sighs at the idea of it, and flips to a blank sheet on her legal pad and starts writing out a process for it. She thinks about resources that she may need when she does this, such as Shay’s help. Possibly contacting the Cormacs would be a good idea, and Ena Cormac was levelheaded. The Queen of Riocht Mumain, and therefore one of the most powerful people in Ireland, was a good ally to have. The Cormac had controlled Riocht Mumain for millennia in various fashions. The present clan had seized full control of a quarter of the island in the 1500s, and so had the other rulers of the magicals on the island. They’d presented Elizabeth I with an ultimatum. Either they were recognized as the magical rulers of magical Ireland, or they would first kill every single Englishman on the island, and then they would invade Britain. 

Intelligently, she had chosen to give up control of magical Ireland to the Kings. She got a shiny alliance that any succeeding ruler would be required to honor, and she also got to keep control over the non-magicals in Ireland. Ireland’s present political system had been functioning fantastically for nearly five hundred years. The High Kings were elected once every five years, and the Irish elected their MPs from among the Irish magical population. The clan heads still had a large part to play in politics, but the everyday running of the country was left to the elected MPs. The Kings and Lords controlled diplomacy, the military, and had a large say in the education of their future subjects. They were still extremely powerful. But they didn’t control everything, and that was a good thing. To make it even better, magic chose the Kings and the clan heads. Someone who was raised to the position wasn’t necessarily the best candidate, and magic made sure that her people would thrive under the best ruler possible. 

Ri Ena, therefore, was magically chosen to be the current ruler of Riocht Mumain. And she  _ would  _ listen to Dorcha. 

Her line of thought is interrupted by Shay walking into the kitchen, covering his mouth with his hand as he yawns. “Good morning, Dorcha.”

She smiles at the adorable sleepiness, the mess of his hair, and the red lines in his cheek from the pillows. “Good morning. Do you want some food?”

That lights up his eyes, and he smiles. “Yes.”

“The kettle is hot, still, if you want tea,” she offers. 

Shay nods. “I remember where your tea is. I can make it myself.”

“Good, because if you want food, I have to make it.”

“I can cook too, Dorcha,” Shay remarks, an amused smile on his face as he reaches for her tins of tea and a mug. He goes for exactly the one she thought he would, the Irish breakfast tea. And the blue mug. 

She scoffs, propping her hands on her hips. “Not on a modern stove. Yet.”

He looks comically offended, and it is to this expression that Haytham walks into the kitchen. He stops, squinting at Shay in confusion, and then looking back at Dorcha. “What did you say?”

“That he can’t cook on a modern stovetop yet,” she replies, sliding off of her stool and closing her laptop before proceeding over to the fridge. She finds bacon in the fridge and sets it on the counter, before throwing an apple at Shay. “Cut that up, will you?”

He nods. “Sure. But you’ll teach me how to use it, right? Your stovetop?”

Dorcha sighs, smiling fondly at the two of them. “Yes. Along with many other modern appliances.” First she points out where she keeps her culinary knives and a cutting board, and Shay rifles through the rest of her cabinets for a bowl. She sets the bacon next to the stovetop, still covered in the butcher’s paper that she got it in. She also finds eggs and a loaf of bread, while Haytham pours himself a cup of tea. He sits down at the counter, and she can feel his curiosity as he looks at the laptop open and running on the counter. 

“Dorcha, what is the purpose of this device?”

“Well,” she says, finding the splatter screen and a couple frying pans, “I was doing research for my doctoral dissertation. I’m pursuing a philosophiae doctor, a PhD, in political science. You can do a lot, like shop, watch videos, do research, contact people...it’s very useful.”

“Interesting. Why are the letters arranged like this?”

“It’s an archaic remnant from earlier devices, like a typewriter. I think the original purpose was the most used letters being in reach,” she tells Haytham, starting up the bacon and the eggs. Shay has moved on to the bread for her, cutting up the slices neatly for her. 

Haytham appears to have satisfied his curiosity about her laptop for now, and asks her about her PhD. “Political science? Does that mean you’re studying government and the like?”

“Yep. It’s a complicated field, and it integrates anything from economics to psychology. You’re welcome to my books.”

“I will have to take you up on that offer,” Haytham remarks, finally deciding that his tea is cool enough to drink. He sets the cup down, and asks a question she expected that one of them would ask at some point today. “Your mind feels significantly different and you referred to your memories being changed yesterday evening. What happened?”

“I am not entirely sure what triggered it, but, I...woke up. That’s the best way that I can describe what happened. I wasn’t asleep, no, but I was imprisoned. It is equally true to say that I was born in 10,000 BCE as 1985. I was Dorcha Ortiz before the integration, even if I had been going by Darcy Lewis, and I am still Dorcha Ortiz, but I am also Dorcha the Traveller,” she explains.

She hears a noise that is distinctly Shay spitting out his tea. 

“Shay!” Haytham snaps, looking very annoyed by the tea that’s all over the counter.

“You’re my ancestor?” Shay asks, feeling slightly horrified. 

She turns around, propping her hands on her hips, the look in her eyes making Shay squirm and Haytham look uncomfortable. “Setanta Padraig Cormac, I gave birth to Corran 11,091 years ago. Do you have any idea how many generations that is? Besides, I grew up with you as much as I grew up in the Irish tundra during the Younger Dryas period. Don’t be an idiot. We’re also distant cousins, but if you go back far enough, everyone is related. Do I need to remind you that you’ve slept with my mother during a festival day?”

“No,” he mumbles, staring down at his teacup. 

Haytham is laughing at Shay from behind his own cup of tea. “You’re his ancestor?”

“Yes. Very distantly. I gave birth to the first member of the Cormac clan, Corran. He’s the progenitor of Shay’s line more than I am, and that line is still extant. One of his descendants rules magical Munster today, seeing as one of his magical descendants married back into the main line,” she responds, turning back to her bacon and flipping it over. 

Shay groans. “Does that mean we have to go to court? I hate court.”

Haytham feels very confused. “Shay,” he says slowly, turning the idea over in his head. “Does this mean that you were a prince?”

“Uh. Prince of the Blood, aye. I don’t remember being titled anything but Prince Cormac when I was in court. Too distant from the main line,” he remarks. Then, he turns the line of questioning on her. “The stories say that you got imprisoned in the depths of the ocean.”

She blinks a few times, shutting her eyes and trying not to remember the crushing weight of the ocean. The darkness. The all-encompassing cold. She was close enough to the floor of the ocean that she could feel water, instead of just sediment suffocating her, but she was still buried in the seabed. For three thousand years. With no access to any of her power, no way to get out until her second self was strong enough to handle the change from half-human and half Tuatha De Danann to completely Tuatha De Danann. And fate had decreed that she hadn’t been born again until 1985, 3,684 years after she was first imprisoned. And then she had to wait another thirty-one years for freedom. “I did,” she whispers. “I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy. Death is death, it is an end, but I could not die and I could not live.”

“So the stories were true? The Milesians managed to imprison the entirety of the Irish gods?” Shay asks, voice shaking to a degree in a combination of rage and horror. 

“I know how it was before they sealed me into the sea. Tir Na Nog was meant to be a paradise, a place where we could call our home as the humans multiplied. It’s now a prison. I don't know how it has changed in the millennia since,” she says, and then thinks back on it again. “Yes, they managed to seal us. They used me to do it. But you know that story already.”

Shay nods, his eyes falling shut. “I do know that story.”

Dorcha shrugs, finishing the bacon and scooping it onto a plate. She pours the scrambled eggs into a bowl as well, and sets that in front of her soul-partners. Butter and jam are acquired, and bread is toasted, and then they eat the first meal together that they’ve ever had. 

She recalls what she was thinking about earlier, and says slowly, “Shay, how do you feel about crashing a royal ball?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riocht Mumain is the Kingdom of Munster. Therefore, Shay's descendant, Ena Cormac, is Queen of Munster. There are five Kings/Queens, called Ri Ruirech (king of overkings). One of them is elected by the people (in this) to a five-year term as Ard Ri, or High King of Ireland. Yeah, Shay is a prince, but...at the time of his expulsion he was the equivalent of one of Princess Margaret's grandchildren. Sort of. That's the best comparison I can come up with.  
> (Now it is January 4th!)


	5. Books and Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham grapples briefly with modernity, Dorcha thinks about the triad's contrast with each other, Shay bitches about Court, and there is an outfit made!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righdamhna means "of kingly material", and it refers to the class that the Rig (Irish Kings and technically Queens in this universe) can be selected from. Here it doesn't extend to the flatha (the lords), but just the Five Families. Let me know if you see inconsistencies, I wrote a big chunk of this during philosophy.  
> Also, in here, they have 8/9 days until the party crashing happens on January 13th. 8/9 days to do stuff. Like experience a modern city...? I may make that a little short story or something so it doesn't interrupt the flow of the story.

While Shay tries to meditate and reorganize his memories, Dorcha shows Haytham her many, many, books. 

"They aren't alphabetized. They're organized by concept. So you can find anything relating to revolution, from philosophy to history, grouped with other books about revolution, and that's subcategorized into feminist movements, the Russian Revolution, and smaller revolutions. It's easier for me to find what I'm looking for that way," Dorcha remarks, waving at the built in wall of bookcases in the cabin. She kept all of her textbooks because she had the money to do so, and that meant that the wide array of books in her house was even more academically oriented. 

Haytham looks at her books, reading titles at whim, and then back at her. "Where do you recommend I start, Dorcha?"

She tilts her head. "What do you want to know?"

"You live in a very different era than the one that I died in," he observes, pulling out Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex. He turns the cover towards her, showing the book to her. "What is this one?"

"Philosophy about the rights and status of women. It was written about seventy years ago, and is considered a formative work in feminist philosophy," Dorcha replies, folding her hands in front of her. 

"Written by a woman?"

"Men have little positive to contribute to the discussion on the rights of women unless they are advocating for equality and improvements," she says challengingly, meeting her soul-partner's ocean-blue eyes with her own. He glances away quickly, looking down at the floor, and she can feel a sense of conflict and a bit of anger--a predictable reaction--from his mind. 

"It seems like I have much to learn," he says mildly, looking down at the book in his hands. "And the Colonies...America...it is a world power now? Like England was?"

"Well, yeah. The Second World War established that. It was...terrible. The estimates for the death tolls range from 70 to 85 million, about three percent of the planet's population at the time. The United States led the war crimes tribunals and then had enough money left to fund the reconstruction of most of Europe."

"Three percent? And most of Europe was...destroyed?"

"It was a terrible war," Dorcha says, shrugging. She thinks back on all that she's learned, the classes she took that dealt to some degree with the Second World War, about how the consequences reworked the planet. She understands war on a fundamental level, but that doesn't mean that she entirely agrees with it. "I have a lot here about war and conflict. My mother is a war goddess. It's a point of interest."

"Yes, but your domain is not war," Haytham counters, raising his eyebrow at her.

She shrugs. "My domain deals with the aftereffects of war. I am the Traveller. People become displaced by war all the time. War demands the movement of troops, civilians, prisoners. I oversee that. Of course I have an interest in war because my mother is a war goddess, but I am also interested in war because those I protect are affected by it."

"And this Second World War displaced many people?"

"Yes. There was a man who ordered the deaths of 9 million Jews, and because of him, so many of them fled to England and the United States and Israel. And now because the nation of Israel was formed, more people are displaced because an agreement with other global powers like the United States and Britain meant that the people of Israel could displace the Arabs that were also already living there. And since World War II happened, so many other things created a cascade that means most of Africa and what we call the Middle East is perpetually war-torn." 

She tries to keep it succinct, but Haytham’s eyebrows rise anyway. That is a very reductive answer to a very complex problem, and she’s clearly sparked his interest. Haytham nods, clearly making a decision. “Well,” he says wryly, “you know what we like to say. May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Yes,  _ that  _ maxim. Templar thought was so fascinatingly in conflict with itself, seeing as one of their most-said phrases was in itself a prayer of sorts, but most of the Templars were deeply agnostic. One very prominent exception was Shay himself, who was an acolyte of the cult of the Morrigan, if not a solitary one whose prayers mostly consisted of spilled blood. Understanding was such a funny thing for them as well, because they did indeed believe that humanity was meant to be enlightened, but they also didn’t believe in free will. Understanding and knowledge would therefore be restricted in their ideal world as the Templars don’t think that humanity can think for themselves. 

She frequently questioned why three people with such distinct and somewhat conflicting personalities had been tied together by fate. Haytham was a true believer in the Templar cause, someone who didn’t really believe in free will. He was a lot more cold and logical than herself and Shay, but he also had emotions. Evidenced by how he was currently a little bit mad at Shay. Just a little. Shay and Haytham both had aristocratic upbringings, but Haytham was simply an upper-class merchant in contrast to Shay’s birth status as righdamhna, a Prince of Munster. She wasn’t going to outright say that Shay hated his status, as it had been stripped from him in 1755, but he certainly didn’t see it like he might have when he was a younger man. He was raised by a father who spent most of his time at sea among sailors, and that had more of an influence on him than his aunt’s tutoring and this infrequent trips to Court. She wasn’t even human. Her upbringing as the well-loved daughter of an astronomer and her other upbringing as a godling made her a very different person than the two humans she was bound to. That wasn’t to say that she didn’t have her own aristocratic ties, but the Puerto Rican Ortiz were mostly just rich, and her mother didn’t benefit from that wealth the way that her cousins did. They were a much younger branch of the family than the Tenochtitlan branch or the main family, and therefore they were a lot more integrated in with the general American and Caribbean magical society than the Spanish branch was. The Spanish branch dated back a thousand years and counted as real aristocracy, and the Tenochtitlan branch was one of the thirteen founding families of Mexican magical society in the 1500s. 

“Let me know if you need me to make translated copies of anything. I know that you speak French and Latin fluently, but I have a few Arabic and Russian texts that I don’t think you know how to read,” Dorcha tells her soul-partner, causing Haytham to smile. 

“I will try to have a basic understanding of your twenty-first century by the time the week is out.”

“What is mine is yours,” she says, settling back down at the counter with her laptop and her notepad to continue doing research on her dissertation until Shay comes out of his meditative trance. 

Haytham makes a noise of acknowledgement and goes back to perusing her books before finding one and sitting down on her couch with it. A few hours pass before Shay comes out into the living space, hair a little bit messy from him running his hands through it but he seems a lot calmer and at ease with himself. She can feel it across the pairing, his chaotic thoughts and memories having stilled into a slightly more organized process of thought. It is a little less headache inducing for all three of them now that they’ve settled into their present selves. He looks at them both, and then addresses Dorcha. “You said something about crashing a party?”

“January 13th, yeah. You need dress robes, though,” Dorcha says, glancing up from her laptop briefly at Shay. 

Shay groans, dramatically flopping on the couch and ending up with his forehead pressed to Haytham’s thigh and an annoyed Haytham glaring down at him. “I hate dress robes.”

Haytham proceeds to wedge his hand underneath Shay’s shoulder and flip him onto the floor and off the couch. As one does. As Shay splutters and Darcy cackles at the scene gleefully, Haytham goes back to his book. Shay looks completely and utterly betrayed, looking up at Haytham from the floor with a hurt puppy look. 

Dorcha sighs. “As much as you hate dress robes, party crashing is always better received when you’re dressed to suit. They haven't really changed much from your time period, but the makeup of the Court is certainly a bit different.”

Shay sighs on the floor. “The one thing that I didn’t truly miss about the magical world was Court. I was just important enough to not be easily dismissed, but unimportant enough that people thought they could use me to climb the ladder and get access to more important Cormacs through me. Going to Court today would be entirely different from going to Court then. For one thing, I am alive after one hundred and eighty-eight years of being legally dead. For another thing, I was exiled in 1755 and I will be showing up along with you as your companion instead of as the exile Sétanta Padraig.”

Dorcha nods sympathetically, recalling the chaos and backstabbing involved in the Summer and Winter Courts, and even the calculations and intrigue of her own court during her youth and then maturity as a full-fledged goddess. The Lesser Fae, or those that were more commonly known as just the Fae, were a group that had in essence been created by her kind as companions when they were first experimenting with her own creation, Tir na Nog, but some of them had ended up having children with her kind in the years since. Some of them were offspring of Tir na Nog itself, manifestations of the wild magic of her dimension. In the eons since she had formed her dimension, it had taken on a life of its own. She was looking forward to seeing what she largely considered her brainchild again. She was not looking forward to court. 

“Well,” she says brightly, “at least you’re with me, and I know how to deal with politicians. Especially mortal politicians. I also know how to magically sew, so we don’t need to see a tailor.” 

“Where are you going to get the fabric from?” Haytham asks curiously, looking up from his book. 

“I have some. It’s acceptable quality for crashing a royal ball,” Dorcha says, propping her hands on her hips. 

“So, acromantula silk, linen and cotton woven finer than anything you ever wore, Haytham, and probably a wool-silk blend somewhere in there,” Shay says, finally standing up from his spot on the floor. He sighs. “Can you measure me and get it over with?”

“Why do you hate the tailor so much?” Haytham asks in confusion, looking up at Shay from his spot on the couch.

Shay’s cheeks flush, and he mumbles, “The seamstresses are always handsy.”

Dorcha rolls her eyes. “I promise I won’t do that.”

“Good!” The look of relief on Shay’s face is obvious, and she hides her smile behind her hand. She may find her soul-partner very attractive, but she won't touch him without his consent. That’s not appropriate, and she’s a millennial and a feminist. She has a certain way of thinking that’s persisted into her complete self, now, and she won’t give that up even to the fae neural programming that she has. 

There’s a tape measure in one of her dimensional bubbles, the little places where she figured out how to store things she needed, maintained by her own magic in the days before her magic was sealed for illegal experimentation. It’s still there, because even though they sealed her magic, they didn’t entirely get rid of it. She just wasn’t able to use or access it anymore. So, there’s a five-foot tape measure, because she’s American. 

This is going to be a little awkward.

Shay cooperates with her in order to get the awkwardness of measuring him for formal robes done and over with. She makes sure not to touch his very fine ass and neither of them look at each other for about an hour afterward, and Haytham laughs at both of them silently, his amusement radiating through their mental bonds. 

With her measurements in hand, she sets to cutting the fabric with the old sewing spells she had found in a book when she was younger, taking over her beautiful dining room table in order to do so. Shay finds a book on her shelves and ignores the goings on in her little dining room. She remembers his aunt teaching him how to repair garments when he was younger, the only magical talent Dairine having possessed been that of needle and thread. That had sparked her interest in making her own clothes, or even doll clothes, as a six year old girl. The ability had served her well as an adolescent when none of the muggle clothes she wore regularly had pockets, and even better when she lost her magic and preferred to make her own clothing instead of buy fast fashion pieces that weren’t exactly made in an ethical way. She did occasionally have to buy fast fashion pieces, but she still preferred thrifting and making her own clothing before she bought something from Target or Walmart. She had made a lot of clothing that held up, and her meticulously curated wardrobe usually looked like it was of a lower quality, but she knew that it was worth it. Most of the formal clothes or business dress she owned was handmade (you try finding a comfortable pair of business trousers with pockets and comfort), and that was where her expertise in creating clothes came in handy when she was making court dress for Shay. 

Haytham watches her create clothing essentially with her will alone from the other side of the table, head tilted in curiosity as she explains the process to him while cutting fabric and sewing it together with a magical backstitch.

The Morrigan’s colors were those of a battlefield, the red of blood, white of bone, and the gray ash of funeral pyres. Therefore, the Cormacs had adopted her symbolic colors as their own, since she was their family’s patron goddess. Should war ever come to Ireland again, it would be Munster that would provide the generals for the armies. Shay would wear his family’s colors, and her dimensional indigo. That was the best statement to make. 

For him, trousers of solid black with embroidery down the seams that she would do when she was finished with all of the base pieces in order to make sure that they matched. She made a fine linen shirt in the modern style the color of bone, with sleeves that were intended to be rolled up to below the elbow. The vest either matched the pants or was an accent color, in this case, the color of fresh arterial blood. Finally, the overrobes could be with sleeves or without sleeves, and since she wasn’t going to make them red, they would be black.

“Sleeves or no sleeves?” Dorcha asks absently, tapping her fingertips on her hips as she stares at the black silk for the overrobes. 

“No sleeves,” Shay calls from the living room, going back to his book immediately after saying that. 

She nods, finishing the ashy black overrobe about an hour from the start of the process. Waving her hands makes all of the layers float together and rest as they would on Shay himself, to allow her to visualize how the layers fit together and how the embroidery should look.

It is not socially acceptable for anyone but the righdamhna and those who marry into the five families to wear gemstones and precious metals on their clothing. Shay is one of them, which means that she is free to use real garnets and silver thread to make a statement. Exiled or not, he was born as one of the righdamhna. She watches the thread creep over the clothing in intricate patterns, repeating crimson-and-bone geometric patterns creeping up the outer seams of the trousers and shining in the soft filtered light from the windows. The crimson vest stays plain, the only thing in the entire set of dress robes without a stitch of intricate embroidery or real gemstones on it. The shirt stays mostly plain with a little bit of indigo on the collar and the sleeves. The outerrobe is the masterpiece of the whole set, and the patterns from the seams on the outside of the trousers follow the side seams of the outerrobe up, and she works in her own indigo among the bone and crimson and silver of the rest of it. The back of the robe is always meant to display something, whether it is a family crest or a scene of some sort. She hides so many symbols in the patterning, choosing to eschew the Cormac crest or a story. The Templar cross finds itself turned into Celtic knotwork, and she displays crows and constellations and the flicker of Isu circuitry under it all. She chooses to display what makes Shay himself, if one wishes to look at it for long enough. There’s the glimmer of emeralds and silver thread and garnets in the coat, and it ends up weighing a lot. 

She steps back, the glimmer of her magic fading from her fingertips as she examines the clothing with a critical eye. Shay can wear his own damn boots, and she’ll glamour them before they leave for the annual celebration on the 13th. 

“Real gemstones,” Haytham drawls, observing the floating outfit like she does. He nods in approval. “It is very well-done, Dorcha.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling to herself, and thinking about exactly how nice Shay will look in Irish dress robes fit for his royal status. Well. They'll make one hell of a statement. 


	6. Even Goddesses Wear Lipstick

January the 13th, the annual celebration of the Treaty of Whitehall and the establishment of Ireland as a magical kingdom free from English rule, arrives quickly. Taking both of them to Chicago for two days in order to show them what cities look like today was an interesting experience. She renewed her hatred of cities, but managed to make it through the day without ditching the city and its dirt for the fresh air of her cottage. They dealt with the new situation admirably, and now, after a dinner of her favorite pasta dish (ravioli with pesto cream sauce) and a little bit of red wine, she’s standing in her bathroom meticulously layering her clothing by hand. Despite her ability to snap her fingers and change her outfit, she felt calmer and more ready to face whatever was in front of her if she got ready manually. 

She layers her clothing with the same precision she prepares for battle with. This was about making a statement. This was about traditional dress, layers of gauzy spidersilk contrasting with leather-and-bronze armor and a spear in her hand. 

Well. Spidersilk had insane tensile strength, and you literally had to use spells to cut the woven fabric because iron and bronze didn’t cut it. It was beautiful, but it was also some of the most functional fabric in the magical world. Even when woven finely enough that it was translucent, the strength of the material was not to be understated. 

The first layer slides over her skin with a whisper, indigo rippling with the depth of the night sky falling from her shoulders to her ankles. The second is the same color. The third is a gleaming shade of raw silvery white, the color that spidersilk was when it was first woven into cloth from the thread. The third is emerald green, the fourth a sapphire blue, and the fifth brilliant gold. The next two are her dimensional indigo, and she finishes the last two layers in cosmic latte pink, both of them cut to show off the dimensional indigo underneath. Nine total layers, not counting the armor. 

The design of them was intended to ripple as she walked with the myriad of colors she was showing off in layers. Many of her kin wore robes that were intended to do that. Her combination of colors vaguely summed up to what her magic looked like when she unleashed the full might of it, which was a rare occurrence. None of these mortals would have the slightest idea what her robes meant, so long had her kin been away from the Overworld. They would learn. 

She strapped bronze greaves onto her feet over her leather-wrapped feet and shins, closing the buckles on them with fond remembrance of the many times she had worn these exact enchanted greaves. Her breastplate and backpiece of worked bronze and leather was similarly buckled on, and so was her swordbelt. Her swordbelt was equipped with leaf-bladed bronze sword and a meteorite steel dirk with a dragonbone handle, and the final pieces of her outfit were her jewelry and her spear. The bone beads and jewel-headed pins were arranged into her hair with a flick of her fingers, magic braiding her hair into the many tiny plaits and loops of her favored style. She decorated her ears with gold and obsidian, and slid heavy gold armbands up onto her biceps. 

As she set her eyeliner pen down, she stares into the mirror for a moment, seeing a double-layered reflection. The second Dorcha stares at herself in wonder, at the natural woad lines and the triple-jointed fingers clasping a spear. Her eyes remained the same. The same pale green as lichen, with gold around her pupils bleeding into the green. The gold takes over when she uses the Eagle Vision, like how Shay’s eyes flash gold whenever he’s looking at something through the vision. It shines, too. The last thing she does is put on her lipstick, a modern affectation she can’t and won’t give up. Red Velvet, by Besamé.

Now the human part of her feels like she can shout at a room full of Kings and Lords. The divine part has done it before and doesn’t give a fuck. 

She sighs and steps out of the bathroom, walking towards the guest suite where Shay and Haytham appear to be bickering. Haytham has Shay’s coat draped over his arm.

“I told you, you should wait for Dorcha to do your hair!”

“It’s fine!”

“It is fine,” she agrees, stepping into the room and letting a red ribbon flicker into existence in her fingertips. 

The boys turn towards her, Shay’s mouth dropping open slightly. Haytham’s eyebrows raise in surprise. She looks down, and then back at them. “What is it?”

“You look…”

“Magnificent,” Haytham says, completing Shay’s statement for him. “These are formal robes?”

She waves Shay over, and he lets her tie the red ribbon around the hair elastic that he’s wearing. It stands out against the darkness of his hair, like a splash of blood. He steps forward, and she gets a good look at how well the clothing she made him fits. 

“Sort of. When I used to attend other courts, such as Mount Olympus, I would wear these. When I attend functions with the rest of my people, there is less real armor and more gold involved. I’ve also worn these to quell disputes between Mab and Titania. I’m trying to make a statement with these,” she remarks, raising her eyebrow at Shay. “Put your coat on. We have a party to crash.”

He grins at her, sliding his arms into the heavy coat. “I’m coming.”

She brushes a kiss against Haytham’s cheek. “See you later, dearest.”

“Have fun yelling at nobles, I don’t envy you the task.”

“Just because the Five Kings are god-chosen doesn't mean they don't have to listen to me.”

She takes Shay’s hand in hers preparing to shift them through time and space. “Close your eyes. The sight of the In-Between is not something that you’ll survive yet.”

“Closing my eyes,” he replies, covering his eyes with his other hand. 

She pulls at the threads of this dimension, warping reality just enough for her to slip between the threads making up reality. The shadows swallow them whole, as she steps into the In-Between for a moment, and the In-Between spits her back out in the lengthening shadows of the gardens at Tara. The wards don’t even recognize her as an entity. They welcome Shay, because he was never properly banned from Tara, and his magical signature is still that of a Cormac. 

He looks around, taking in the gardens with wide eyes. It’s an unusually cold day in Tara, with a light blanket of snow on the ground that makes everything sparkle. Their breath is visible, but it’s not cold enough to be unpleasant. 

“I’ve never been to Tara before,” Shay says, looking around with delight in his eyes. His joy is infectious, and she finds herself smiling back at him. 

“I know.”

“Caiseal is our seat, and it’s ancient and beautiful...but this is where we became a nation.”

“Caiseal has bad memories for you,” she remarks.

“That it does,” he says, eyes reflecting the candlelight spilling from the windows. 

She remembers the two times that he was ever invited to Caiseal. Once, as Elias demanded that he go to Scotland, as the only member of Clan Cormac to fight in the Second Jacobite Uprising. They’d never quite figured out if that was meant to be a test of ability, or as a way of getting rid of him. Certainly, there were factions of his family that had been disappointed when he had escaped Culloden by the skin of his teeth. Those same factions were disappointed when he had survived his magic being bound in 1755, and his exile from Caiseal that same day. Caiseal was never his home like it was for the rest of his clan. New York was, and then the  _ Morrigan  _ was his home. 

“Shall we go inside?”

“You’ll hide us, right?”

“You thought I wasn’t going to?” 

“No. Just checking.”

Dorcha stares incredulously at her partner-soul, wondering what exactly possessed him to say that. Right. Humans made jokes.

“Right.”

She pulls the shadows and light around them, layering a glamour complex enough that not even one of the Kings would be able to see them or sense them until she chose to reveal them. Useful, that.

“Are we going to be petitioners, then?”

“The petition is the best time to tell them what I’ll be doing. It’s more dramatic that way.”

The petition was an informal way of making demands to the ruler. The petitions only happened every five years, upon the anointing of a new Ard Ri, and tradition dictated that the Ard Ri could not reject any petition placed before them. Therefore, there weren’t any outrageous requests these days. Couples who were marrying against their families’ wishes often sought a blessing from the Ard Ri, and sometimes disputes were placed before them to solve. Since there was no rejecting a request, appearing before High King Ena mac Mhumain would be the best way to yell at the humans. 

She links her arm in his, and they make their way towards one of the open sets of doors spilling light and warmth into the gardens. The second they breach the bubble of wards, the warmth is instantaneous. Cocktail hour, or what passes for it while everyone waits for the announcement, is in full swing, and a few people are already drunk. The chatter of different Irish accents is soothing, and she can see Shay smiling at the accents and language. It must be a comfort to one who spends so much time around English speakers to hear their own language for once. Dorcha certainly enjoys hearing her people speak, though she hasn’t heard the language of her own tribe in over three thousand years. 

A scepter thuds on the floor, quieting the many nobles and MPs chattering around the room. All five of the kings proceed into the room, lining up on the dais with King Ena of Mhumain at the center. They speak as one, in the standard Irish dialect of the Five Kingdoms. “As magic decrees, as magic selects, for five years from this day, Ena of Mhumain will rule as your High King.”

The room erupts in cheers, as Ailbhe of Ulster hands off the scepter of the High Kings to her successor. 

The resemblance between Ena and Shay is notable, but she does happen to be directly descended from him. They share the Cormac black hair (even if Ena’s has mostly turned gray) and dark eyes, and their faces are even similarly shaped. Ena is eighty-nine years old, which is still considered middle-aged for a witch of her strength, and Cormacs are long-lived. Witches tend to be. Dorcha’s son Corran lived until he was two hundred and three, but direct divine ancestry does good things for a person’s longevity. As evidenced by many of the magicals in the room. 

Ailbhe steps forward, lifting her arms up. “Let the petitioners come forth!”

Dorcha moves into action, pulling Shay along with her as she moves in front of the dais. She throws off the glamour in a shimmer of sparks, imbuing her voice with magic and power. The crowd gasps, and she smiles dangerously at their reactions. “I am Dorcha, and I have a request of you, Ena of Eireann.”

Thousands of years had passed since one of her kind had physically been at Tara, and in the time between, it had morphed from a shared city between humans and fae to the administrative center of Ireland. Children weren’t educated at Tara, for safety reasons, but it still functioned as somewhere that all Irish considered a capital. A seat of power. Parliament met in this very castle, the most significant court cases in the nation were heard here, and the Lia Fail was here. 

“You are Dorcha the Traveller,” Ena responds slowly, staring down at her. “How may I serve, my lady?”

The people in the room gasp again. What, it hasn’t been that long! It used to be a common occurrence for gods to drop in and tell humans to do stuff. 

...The proper show of deference is kneeling, y’all, or have you forgotten how to treat gods?

“Your people have guarded the doors between worlds for thousands of years, and for the last three thousand years, this duty has largely become ceremonial. I ask you to prepare your gatekeepers, for the doors will function as they were constructed.”

“The doors are one-way.”

She rolls her eyes. They most certainly were not one way, that wasn’t how passage tombs worked. Sure, humans could go through them and shouldn't, but they were supposed to be able to get back out again. Especially after she created the first of the lesser fae, and then more of them started appearing, created by the ambient magic of the Otherworld. The Wild Hunt existed for a reason, and it was to keep some of the more malicious fae in check. “I built them. They were meant to be doors for the Tuatha De Danann to walk between the Otherworld and the Overworld. They were not meant for the lesser fae to lure humans through. Since the doors will be functioning properly, soon, your Gatekeepers will need to keep the humans away from the doors.”

“There are thousands of passage tombs across Ireland,” she says, exchanging looks with her fellow Kings. Conan of Meath strokes his beard thoughtfully, clearly considering the implications a resurgence of the fae would have on his people. Cathal of Leinster doesn't look worried, or at least he’s very good at hiding his emotions. Aine of Connacht has the same ability to hide what she’s thinking. The Kings know what they must do, and they know that they can’t deny her request. Or stop her. The method of chaining her was lost to time, even if the runes they used to bind her were the same as the method of binding witches’ magic. 

“And I will ward the ones that your gatekeepers don't guard.”

“I will tell the gatekeepers, my lady.”

“You are lucky that I already have a consort of the bloodline of the Milesians to unlock the tombs,” she says, gesturing to Shay, who cheerfully waves at his descendant, “else I would have to borrow one of your clan.”

Recognition crosses Ena’s face, and she looks exasperated. Dorcha can't imagine why, it's been two centuries since a Cormac personally had to deal with Shay. Perhaps his exploits post-1755 had become legend? She couldn’t imagine why, for her favorite person (besides Haytham) was not that prone to mischief. Just a little. “Well,” Ena says, still looking exasperated, “thank you for being considerate enough to bring my most troublesome ancestor back from the dead instead of borrowing one of my clan.”

“Enjoy your evening, Your Majesty,” Shay says, smile full of mirth, “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

All she hears as she pulls Shay through the In-Between is him cackling and Ena muttering, “Gods, I hope not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a good day


End file.
